


Lacuna

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Archaeology, Atlantis AU but without being Atlantis, Being Lost, Fluff, Happily Ever After in the Epilogue, Historical References, Immortality, Legends, M/M, Magic, Russian Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: Archaeologist Yuuri Katsuki is on a quest to discover the truth about the mythical golden city of Kitezh, aided only by the journal of his idol, Viktor Nikiforov, a famous explorer who disappeared without a trace in the 19th century.Except, maybe Viktor isn't gone after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness gracious, this has been my baby for so long it's so nice to finally post it. This was originally written for the Victuri Writer's Chat zine, [Aurum](https://vwczine.tumblr.com/), where we had to write something based on the idea of an AU and Gold-themed. To be honest, I really liked the idea of an Atlantis themed fic, except I didn't want to rip directly off the Disney version. Thankfully, with some research, I found out Russia had their own version with a "golden" city, and thus this fic was born. 
> 
> NGL, I did a lot of research for this fic and included some mentions of my findings in the footnotes, but they're not necessary to read the story, just stuff I found interesting. I'm by no means an expert, so if I got anything wrong, please be easy on me. 
> 
> There's a 2K epilogue that I couldn't fit in the original zine but damnit I wanted to include it now so I did. 
> 
> Thanks to both Cary and Ollie for looking this over for me, not to mention being awesome mods. We did it, y'all. TToTT
> 
>  **Note:** There is a scene involving the feeling of drowning. Nothing too graphic but I wanted to give a heads up.

Yuuri stares at the leather-bound journal in front of him and struggles to swallow around the lump forming in the back of his throat. Even with the number of hoops and hurdles he’s jumped through leading up to this moment, a part of him half-expects he’ll suddenly wake up and discover none of it’s real, his life’s mission nothing but a total pipe dream. 

He’s already read through the journal’s entire contents plenty of times before. First the translation in his native Japanese, then in English, and then in the original 19th-century Russian for authenticity’s sake. He owns every edition of the multiple reproductions published throughout the years and even keeps a dog-eared copy by his bed for regular nighttime reading. If prompted, he could recite the journal’s text by heart, word for word, and recreate its various sketches and maps from memory, albeit as accurately as his artistic ability allows. 

None of it compares to being in the presence of the genuine article. No copy, no matter how faithful it attempts to be, can replicate the sharp musty tang borne from aging paper fibers, the uneven hand-stitched binding from threaded animal sinew, or the speckled shimmer of gilded Cyrillic letters embossed in worn black leather. Nor can it trigger the same amount of awe bubbling up inside Yuuri’s chest. 

When he decides to give the journal a more thorough inspection—and not continue to merely stare at it—he can’t stop his whole body from trembling. Whether is due to nerves, excitement, or a combination of both, he isn’t certain. He’s grateful the representatives of the Kitezh Museum of History and Arts require nitrile gloves as a safety precaution when handling the text because right now his palms are sweating up a storm. [ 1 ] The amount of pressure currently piggybacking on top of his shoulders is equivalent to a squalling newborn being thrust into his unprepared arms. 

His fingertips hover over the cover of the journal for a few silent seconds before they curl around the longer edge to lift it open. As they do so, the strong scent of decades-old mildew wafts further out into the air, a testament to reports claiming the waterlogged journal was found washed up on the shallows of Lake Svetloyar years after its owner disappeared without a trace. 

Speaking of which…

The ink has faded to the point where it’s near illegible, but the sight of Viktor Nikiforov’s distinct loopy signature always sends shivers down Yuuri’s spine. It especially rings true now, when he can revel in the fact he’s holding onto the personal property of the man who’s the sole inspiration behind Yuuri’s passion in the study of mythological places.

The existence of a hidden magical utopia isn’t a unique idea, nor is it restricted to a single country or culture. Atlantis, El Dorado, Shangri-la; the list goes on and on, spanning across the entire globe. While Yuuri’s heard constant mention of these pseudo-locations throughout his archaeological career, none of them grab his attention quite like the legend circulating around the lost Russian city of Kitezh, and that’s due in part to his obsession with the memoir of the infamous explorer Viktor Nikiforov himself. 

As a young boy, Yuuri often pretended to join the daring, outlandish adventures Viktor described partaking in with ardent detail, until Yuuri grew older and realized the modern day equivalent involves less “Indiana Jones”-esque shenanigans and more painstaking hours spent in stuffy libraries and museums hunched over dusty tomes like this one. So retracing the last known quest of his childhood idol now falls under pure self-indulgent wish fulfillment.

The hair standing upright on the nape of his neck reminds him he’s being watched like a hawk while around such a priceless artifact, so he’ll have to keep what his fellow colleague, Phichit, calls his “geekgasm” to a professional minimum. It’s easier said than done, considering there’s a voice in the back of Yuuri’s mind screaming over the fact he’s touching the journal of _the_ one and only Viktor Yakovlevich Nikiforov—

No, Yuuri can’t get too caught up in his admiration; he has to _focus_. There’s a limited amount of exposure to open air the journal is allowed before requiring a return to climate-controlled storage. He’s in a race against the clock, and he’d hate to squander the rare opportunity he’s been granted to study directly from the source just because he had been too busy fawning over someone who’s (unfortunately) long gone by now. 

Well, that’s not fair, because in sort of a way, Viktor and his legacy lives on in the journal he left behind. No matter how many times Yuuri has read the account about the search for Kitezh, it never fails to captivate him. When reviewing the mythos surrounding the supposed city and its disappearance, he can understand why it’s referred to as “Russia’s Atlantis”: an idyllic pacifist society, while under attack from outside invaders hell-bent on pillaging its fabled treasure, received an answer to its prayers by sinking under the water for only the pious of mankind to discover them. At first, the tale reads as an obvious work of fiction, a moral anecdote conceived and spread by the Old Believers sect to warn about the destructive nature of greed against the most righteous and holy, but that was before Viktor uncovered key details linking the story to real life people, events, and places. With the connections he made to the Tatarian chief Batu Khan leading his Golden Horde against Georgy II, Grand Prince of Vladimir, to the still accurate to this day maps of Lake Svetloyar depicting the once-secret pathway to get there [ 2 ], it seems Viktor was on the cusp of finding at least _something_. 

But then, without any discernible cause, he was never seen or heard from again, his trials and tribulations forgotten by most of the world, the only exceptions being people like Yuuri. 

As Yuuri flips to the last known entry, the air catches in his lungs. He’s always assumed Viktor had run out of space to write, hence the unsatisfying open ending, but now Yuuri sees there’s plenty of blank pages left. So what happened? Why would Viktor—

Wait. 

While it’s difficult to tell for certain due to the level of deterioration the journal has undergone, Yuuri swears the opposing page has been ripped out. There’s still a tattered corner of it attached to the binding, as if it was torn from the journal in haste. 

The question now is how and why, and by whom?

Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose, biting back a frustrated groan, but when his glasses slide back into place, he blinks. 

And then blinks again. 

He shoots up in his seat, ignoring the museum representative's confused sound of alarm, and scrambles for a penlight to illuminate the paper from behind as he grabs a magnifying glass. There, in between the empty spaces of the final entry, is a barely visible imprint of the missing page, suggesting the ink hadn’t been fully dried before the journal was closed. Not only does Yuuri have to squint to make the words out, they’re in backward Cyrillic, which means he’s forced to give an educational guesstimate on most of them. Like, he’s not sure if the next line starts with “Эффективный” for “Efficient” or “Эффектный” for “Impressive.” To make matters even more confusing, neither of those options fit the context of the remainder of the passage.

Soon a familiar strain in both Yuuri’s back and eyes grows to become his constant companion. This part of the job can be rather tedious and mind-numbing, yet there’s something cathartic about it, too. The drag of pages against each other as they’re turned, the scratch of the pen against the paper while he takes notes, the odd creak his chair lets out whenever he shifts; they work in tandem to strengthen the concentration necessary to approach the puzzle from every which angle. 

Then, everything clicks into place. 

Instructions. The text from the missing page appear to be instructions. Written with Viktor’s typical flair for the dramatic, but instructions nevertheless. 

Yuuri needs time and references for a proper translation, but just as he transcribes the last passage, the representative pointedly clears her throat. “Your session is over,” she announces in brusque English. “We have to put it away now.”

“Oh, but—” Yuuri begins to protest while resisting the possessive urge to clutch the journal to his chest, especially since he’s uncovered a piece of Viktor somehow everyone else has missed before. It’s selfish how appealing the possibility is to him. 

However, the likelihood of rotting away in a prison left over from the Stalin era if he makes one wrong move brings Yuuri to his senses. “I understand.” He pauses, and then adds, “ _Ya blagodaren vam za vse. Ya tsenyu vashu pomosh’_.” [ 3 ]

Despite being able to read and understand Russian with master proficiency, he suspects he still butchers the inflection while expressing his gratitude. He wonders if it’s why the representative insists on speaking to him in English even after his previous attempts to converse in Russian. If so, she mentions nothing about the quality of his pronunciation and instead busies herself with preparing the journal to be secured back in storage. 

Yuuri takes the obvious dismissal as his cue to leave. He mumbles another thank you for the museum’s hospitality before he gathers up his belongings and exits the building, taking a quick moment once he’s out in the fresh air to scrub a hand across his eyes. His departure is bittersweet, like he’s exchanged a final goodbye with a long-lost friend. Here he was hoping to have more time with the journal, maybe formulate theories about the location of the last page—

The full weight of what’s just happened strikes with dizzying speed. 

His recent discovery means he could be closer to following in Viktor’s footsteps than he’s ever imagined, possibly than _anyone_ else has ever been before. Him, Yuuri Katsuki, of all people, when he’s only a fledgling archaeologist, wet behind the ears and struggling to earn his Ph.D. 

It’s as if he’s been chosen by fate. Or perhaps, even by Viktor himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ 1 ] \- The [Kitezh Museum of History and Arts](https://eng.russia.travel/objects/314809/) is indeed a real museum. Would they do nitrile gloves when most [experts say no gloves at all](https://blog.bookstellyouwhy.com/bid/230079/should-you-ditch-the-white-gloves-for-handling-rare-books), despite what tv and movies tell us? I don't know; I figured because the book might've mold they would require it or something.
> 
> [ 2 ] \- [There's some debate about Kitezh being a real place](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitezh) ~~and not just a level in Tomb Raider~~. Archaelogical expeditions [have found evidence](https://www.rbth.com/articles/2012/07/04/discovering_the_russian_atlantis_16089.html) of a settlement existing in the area, but hardly the gold utopia legend talks about. 
> 
> [ 3 ] \- A really formal way to say Yuuri is grateful and thankful for the help. Good ole' unreliable narrator Katsuki is sure the aide thinks his Russian his terrible when really it's very formal and the aide is like "omg what a polite young man"


	2. Chapter 2

When Yuuri arrives at Lake Svetloyar, his body on autopilot from the second he left the museum, locals and tourists alike have started gathering on the shores in preparation for the evening’s celebrations. The annual summer Ivan Kupala [ 4 ] festival is a cultural amalgamation of both Pagan and Christian rituals, steeped heavily in rural Russian tradition. Hundreds of lit candles dot the lake’s calm crystalline surface like amber colored will-o-wisps. 

Call it silly superstition, fueled by the heightened sense of mysticism swirling in the air around the area, but Yuuri has a gut feeling that if he’s to find something, _anything_ , it’s going to happen tonight. 

He weaves his way through the throng of people to reach a more secluded section of the lake before he pulls out his notes from his backpack, along with his favorite edition of Viktor’s journal. Once Yuuri thought it was the most faithful version to the real thing, but now that he’s double-checked to ensure there’s no sign of a missing page in it (or in any of the others), it’s been downgraded to a crude imitation. How is it possible everyone else who has studied the journal before him missed such an obvious clue? It’s borderline insulting, both to Viktor and the archeological profession. 

Not that Yuuri feels much closer to the truth himself. He’s deciphered enough of the hidden text to identify the elements involved, so now it’s a question of what roles they play in the grand scheme of things. But stopping by the mentioned Church of Our Lady of Kazan—or more specifically, the boulder in front of it, imprinted with what is supposedly the heel of Kitezh’s divine savior—has only lead to a dead end. [ 5 ] Which is disappointing but understandable; Yuuri’s hardly the first to recognize the historical significance. If a lost city could be found by simply examining a weirdly-shaped hole in a rock, the geological community would have a literal field day.

There’s more involved here that Yuuri’s not quite getting. It feels like the final piece to connect everything altogether is just within reach, but he doesn’t know which direction to head towards and is left fumbling around in the figurative dark. 

He takes a seat on a downed tree trunk while contemplating what to do next and winces when the dew-laden bark soaks his jeans within seconds. He should’ve known better; the endless rainfall over the past few days has made everything on the trail wet and slippery, caking his shoes in a layer of mud which will be impossible to remove all traces of later. 

It doesn’t matter. He’d crawl on bare hands and knees, over jagged, treacherous terrain and through freezing snow, howling wind, and blistering fire until his body gave out if it meant he’d be any closer to Viktor. 

_Oh_ , Yuuri suddenly realizes. Maybe that’s it. In the eyes of the church, induced hardships and personal sacrifices for the glory of god are what separated saints from men. If only the most righteous are allowed to gaze upon Kitezh, perhaps a little mortification is involved. 

Except, when he reads through Viktor’s words yet again, thankfully there’s no description of a self-flagellation scene straight out of Dan Brown’s wet dreams. Instead, the last line—if it’s indeed translated correctly—says to have faith in the power of the water and oneself. Previously, Yuuri speculated it’s a theological reference to the baptismal concept of being born anew and free from sin. It’s ridiculous to presume Viktor might’ve meant anything literal, right?

Then again, it could explain how the journal survived, its pages and ink still intact despite being drenched in the lake. According to the written accounts of fur-trappers who stumbled upon it by pure chance, the journal had seemed pristine, almost brand new, and didn’t present any signs of deterioration until after its removal from the water. 

Yuuri nearly stumbles down the steep embankment in his haste to reach the lake’s edge before his brain can convince him this is a bad idea. While June weather in Russia is warmer than anticipated, the glacial water is still at least twenty degrees colder than the air, and his toes go numb within minutes of his first step into the shallows. 

He pauses, allocating a brief moment to contemplate what the hell he’s doing. This real life, not some fairytale; what does he expect is going to happen besides him winding up soggy and disappointed?

Yet he can’t turn back, not now. It’s the quintessential test of wills to prove one’s devotion, the proverbial walking on coals or striding blindly into biblical battle. Except in this instance, it’s not based on belief in any higher entity, but in Viktor and the ideals he represents. 

For Yuuri, the comparison between the two is one and the same. 

The water continues to rise above his ankles, now at mid-shin, and dark splotches creep up his jeans’ inseam and adhere dampened denim to his skin. He doesn’t know if he’s actually become acclimated to the frigid temperature or he no longer registers it with early stages of hypothermia setting in. Either way, he pushes forward, bumping against lily pads and trudging through reed grass, all while being mindful not to stand in one place for too long and get sucked downwards into the loose sediment lining the lake bed. 

He’s waist-deep in the thick of it when he hears the ringing of church bells. Their peals chime too loud and low-pitched to be produced by any sort of handheld instrument, or to come from the tiny church overlooking the lake. They remind him more of the brass behemoths hanging in the brightly painted onion-domed cathedrals back in nearby Nizhny Novgorod, their rich resonance powerful enough to reverberate inside his ribcage. 

There’s singing, too. Not the lively folk music performed at the festival celebrations, but a crisp Znamenny chant [ 6 ] so haunting they raise patches of prickly gooseflesh up and down his arms. 

It should be impossible. It _is_ impossible. And yet, he swears there can be only one explanation. 

His vision darts to the center of the lake, and either this is a hallucination conjured up by a hemorrhaging brain smashed against the sides of his skull with each violent shiver racking his body, or he really is staring down at what has to be Kitezh. Even at the deepest section of the lake, the crystal water is clear enough to peer all the way down to the bottom, and outlines of various stone buildings arranged in a vibrant golden circle are visible even from where he’s standing. They don’t appear to be the crumbling ruins of a rumored civilization lost for thousands of years, but an actual thriving city somehow separated from the rest of the outside world, swaddled underneath the safety and protection of Lake Svetloyar’s calm surface. 

His feet, previously deadened by the cold, spring forward of their own accord, and he wades through the water with renewed vigor. He has to get closer to see the truth for himself; he has to figure a way to get down there somehow, either by swimming (can he even hold his breath for that long?) or—

Without warning, the ground drops out from underneath him, throwing him off-balance and pitching him forward, his arms flailing wildly before they brace for impact.

The splash of his body hitting the water never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ 4 ] \- [Ivan Kupla (or Kupala Night)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kupala_Night) is a Slavic celebration with Pagan fertility origins relating to the idea of the summer solstice. Because of the history involving Lake Svetloyar and Kitezh, [it's definitely considered a sacred place](https://www.slavorum.org/pagan-kupala-rites-on-russian-lake-svetloyar/).
> 
> [ 5 ] \- Since the area around Lake Svetloyar is considered sacred, the [Church of Our Lady of Kazan](https://www.google.com/maps/uv?hl=en&pb=!1s0x415103b449221feb%3A0x1a1b31d711de3a46!2m22!2m2!1i80!2i80!3m1!2i20!16m16!1b1!2m2!1m1!1e1!2m2!1m1!1e3!2m2!1m1!1e5!2m2!1m1!1e4!2m2!1m1!1e6!3m1!7e115!4shttps%3A%2F%2Flh5.googleusercontent.com%2Fp%2FAF1QipMJxIOLtHbD4Rk-9maR8ArtneYV6L71Arr6oVaw%3Dw213-h160-k-no!5sChurch%20of%20Our%20Lady%20of%20Kazan%20Lake%20Svetloyar%20-%20Google%20Search&imagekey=!1e10!2sAF1QipOzVLNczPZ7zcovw491nxxCuZEnkq5jxlFs7U_D&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiHnqrUw9zfAhUKTt8KHYakDY4QoiowDnoECAYQBg) is the only building allowed on the grounds. By the building is [a stone said to be the imprint of the Virgin Mary](https://youtu.be/pcOvVnS5Lfc?t=152)
> 
> [ 6 ] \- [Znamenny chanting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Znamenny_chant) is a singing tradition used in the Russian Orthodox Church that doesn't use notes. [Here's a recording of an example in English; it's absolutely gorgeous](https://youtu.be/0VaHCYqgQ3E).


	3. Chapter 3

Yuuri surges upwards, his hands clawing at his throat, desperate to replace the memory of brackish water flooding his lungs with gulpfuls of fresh air. He kicks out his legs, frantic, until his brain processes he’s entangled in a woven blanket instead of matted pondweed like he originally believed. 

Once he gets his breathing under control, he looks around, bewildered by his current surroundings. He’s no longer at the lake, but how? He cradles his throbbing temples in his hands, unable to remember what happened after he tripped. He had prepared to be swallowed whole, and then—

Someone must’ve spotted him floundering out on the water and rescued him. Except, instead of being admitted to a hospital like he would’ve expected, he’s been stripped down (with only his boxers left for modesty) and placed in what appears to be a bedroom. The furnishings fit the decor of a museum exhibit better than a modern-day household; the fine details hand-carved into polished pine display the craftsmanship required in the construction of the solid wood furniture, and the colorful tapestries mounted on the roughly hewn sandstone walls are embroidered with intricate stitching no machine can ever replicate. 

There’s no sign of technology anywhere. No phones, no televisions or radios, nor any other electronic devices; nothing to suggest whoever lives here hasn’t shunned all conveniences of today’s society. 

Before Yuuri can dwell on it, the door opens, and there’s an illuminated halo of long silvery hair framing the face of a man who can’t be older than thirty. He’s dressed in a satin rubakha  [ 7 ]reminiscent of the ones worn by the historical re-enactors at the festival, the carmine red of the gold-accented tunic a smart contrast against his pale skin. His eyes light up when they meet Yuuri’s, and he launches into an animated spiel in a language which is definitely Slavic by design but impossible for Yuuri’s disorientated brain to comprehend. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri stumbles over his Russian more than usual, “I don’t understand.”

The man lets out a hushed gasp, his eyes wide and sparkling. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve conversed with someone in my natural tongue,” he replies in smooth, dignified Russian, his manner of speech inexplicably familiar. “I’ve nearly forgotten how.”

“Where am I?” Yuuri asks. “What happened?” He sits up straight and whips his head back and forth. “My backpack, did—”

“There’s no cause for alarm.” The man gestures to a side table that has previously passed by Yuuri’s notice. Pieces of shorn wool have been laid out across it, probably to help wick away the moisture from his carefully spread out belongings. They appear slightly soggy but no worse for wear given the circumstances. The sole exception is his phone; he doubts anything can be done to reverse damage due to a plunge in the lake. 

“Though I’m admittedly unaccustomed to this particular method of bookbinding,” the man says, running a finger along the spine of Yuuri’s copy of Viktor’s journal, “I was pleased to find you possess a volume of my work.” He turns his attention back to Yuuri and winks, his smile shifting into a lopsided smirk. “An admirer of mine, I take it?”

“No!” Yuuri blurts out. When the smirk slips off the man’s face, Yuuri scrambles to add, “I mean, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The smile returns, though it doesn’t reach the man’s eyes. “While I may have indeed misplaced the original version of my journal ages ago, I assure you I’ve retained enough of my sensibilities to recognize my own name.”

“But you can’t be _that_ Viktor,” Yuuri argues. If this is some sort of bizarre, elaborate joke, then he fails to see the humor or reason behind it. “He’s been gone for over a hundred years after he disappeared during his search for the city of Kitezh. No one knows what happened to him.”

“Really?” ‘Viktor’ exclaims, his brows raised. “Has it truly been that long?” He hums and taps the side of his chin before he goes to draw back velvet curtains from a nearby window. “Come then,” he waves Yuuri over, “you’re welcome to unravel the mystery for yourself.”

His curiosity winning over confused apprehension, Yuuri slides off the bed and onto his feet, the blanket draped around his shoulders. When he braces himself on the window ledge, the jagged rock surface scrapes his palms, though the sting is softened by the spectacular outside view. The golden helmet-shaped domes of a massive ivory cathedral gleam in the light, the precious metal unblemished by time and weather. Like a silent guardian, the tower looms over a ring of smaller stone buildings and bustling streets filled with people who are also clad in historically accurate garments. 

Everything is tinted an unnatural aquamarine with indistinct shadows zipping across the landscape, and when Yuuri lifts his gaze upwards, it quickly becomes apparent why. The summer sun shines down from its afternoon zenith, but its hazy rays are distorted, and the sky ripples in waves of reflective mercury, almost as if…as if…

He staggers backward into the firm, broad chest rumbling with laughter behind him. “Careful now, it’s quite a shock to take in all at once.”

Yuuri can’t blink to clear his blurring vision fast enough. He whirls on his heel, cupping a hand over his mouth as he gapes slack-jawed at the one person he never ever expected to meet. “It’s real…it’s actually real…” Yuuri whispers, afraid to raise his voice in fear it might break the illusion. “And you—you’re still _alive_?”

The answer comes when his hand is gently tugged away so his wrist can be pressed against the side of Viktor’s neck underneath a strong jawline. The steadfast rhythm of a healthy pulse beats at odds with Yuuri’s own racing heart. “I’m as alive as you are,” Viktor murmurs. “And now that we have that established, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t have the privilege of yours.”

Yuuri gulps. Viktor’s fingers remain curled around his wrist, their warmth radiating upwards to pool into Yuuri’s cheeks. Yet neither he nor Viktor move to pull away. “My name is Yuuri.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor echoes, his eyes half-lidded like he’s savoring the sound. “Then, let me be the first to welcome you to Kitezh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ 7 ] \- While rubahka are usually thought to be generally short tunic type tops nowadays, it seems a longer, almost nightshirt style was popular around this time frame. [Viktor's has fancy accents](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/415898470453477376/439509606931365888/image.png) due to his status.


	4. Chapter 4

Either this is the most realistic dream sequence ever or a specifically catered version of the afterlife. Honestly, Yuuri isn’t sure which option holds more appeal. 

While the shock has worn off, the excitement buzzing inside his brain continues to mount, heightened to an exponential rate when he practically begs Viktor for a tour. Like a kid let loose in a candy shop, Yuuri’s eager for a taste of everything the city has to offer. There’s a moment of remorse for the loss of his phone and its camera, but then again, he’d much rather commit the experience to memory firsthand rather than from behind a screen.

“You continue to astonish me, Yuuri,” Viktor says as he leads them to the next location on their itinerary, Yuuri dressed in borrowed clothes since his are still damp. “I didn’t foresee you to be in such high-spirits so soon, not after the tremendous ordeal you underwent to get here.”

Whether it’s meant to be praise or not, Yuuri can’t keep the flush off his face. “I’m fine!” he insists. “There’s no way I could wait around any longer. I’ve spent my entire life looking for this place.”

“And now you’ve discovered it,” Viktor replies, his voice brimming with admiration. “Congratulations!”

Yuuri rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you, but I don’t know if I can say ‘discovered’ when others were here first. If anything, you should have that honor.”

“That’s true.” Viktor hums and then gestures to himself. “But you found me, haven’t you? No one else has done that before.”

Yuuri blinks, his skin becoming unbearably warm. “No one?”

Viktor shakes his head, his mouth set to a tight, rueful line. “Others have tried but failed. Before you arrived, I was the only one from the outside.”

Before Yuuri can decipher the full ramifications of that, people swarm out of nowhere, talking over each other in the same language Viktor greeted him in earlier. “Everyone here speaks the Old Novgorod dialect [ 8 ],” Viktor explains out of the corner of his mouth in between replying to the others. “It’s simple enough to learn, with time and practice.”

While Yuuri does recognize a few words (and the multiple mentions of his name on Viktor’s part), the joint conversation is still miles above his comprehension level. Some members of the group shamelessly gawk at him like he’s a sideshow freak shoved into the spotlight, so he stands up a little straighter and squares his shoulders, startling slightly when Viktor places a hand on the small of his back and leans in. 

“Please disregard their ignorance,” Viktor says so only Yuuri can hear. “Your arrival is the most excitement they’ve had in…‘over a hundred years,’ wasn’t it?”

“Are they like you, then?” Yuuri lowers his voice to match Viktor’s. “I mean, are they the same people from when Kitezh sank? How is everyone still alive?”

“Ah, it’s another aspect of God’s divinity,” Viktor announces with a grand sweep of his arm. “Whatever great power keeping this city from harm has stopped the ravages of time as well.” He turns and offers his outstretched hand to Yuuri. “Are you ready to carry on then? As a fellow scholar, I feel as there’s something you must see which might answer all your questions.”

The instant his fingers make contact with Viktor’s, Yuuri is stolen away from the crowd and led through the rest of Kitezh. The building they arrive at is unassuming in appearance, no different than the others surrounding it, but when Viktor swings open the reinforced oak door, the smell of dried ink and parchment paper hits Yuuri’s nose and he realizes where Viktor has taken him. 

“Here are the entirety of records Kitezh has to offer.” Viktor flits around, lighting multiple oil lamps to help brighten the room. “You’re welcome to peruse everything to your heart’s content.”

Yuuri doesn’t need to be told twice. He rushes to the shelves and begins to collect as much as his arms can carry, cradling the cherished cargo to his chest. One of the birch scrolls he goes to pick up accidentally unfurls, and he freezes in place when lines of very unmistakable handwriting roll out. “You…you _wrote_ these?” 

That cinches it; he’s never letting go of these for as long as he lives. They’ll have to be pried out of his cold, dead hands.

“You can tell?” Viktor’s pleased grin glows as warm as the flames flickering in the lamps. “I was driven to continue what I had started, especially after losing my previous notes.”

“They’re actually stored in a museum now,” Yuuri informs him, hoping it’s some consolation to know his work hasn’t entirely been lost forever. “The original journal is, I mean, but copies of it have been published all over the world. None of them have the last page though.”

“That’s because I had the foresight to remove it before the journal vanished from my person.” Viktor reaches over to help steady Yuuri’s overflowing arms and supports them from underneath. “After some serious deliberation, I determined it would be remiss of me to let it carelessly fall into the grasp of some unsavory character to use for an ill-intended purpose, would it not?” His thumb idly strokes an invisible, tingling pattern along the back of Yuuri’s wrist. “I would much rather it be placed in the hands of someone much more worthy.”

Yuuri remains silent save for a sharp intake of breath, unable to form an intelligent response. 

“Tell me, Yuuri”—Viktor steps in closer until he’s scant inches away—“while you speak my Russian, you’re not a native-born citizen, correct?” When Yuuri nods, Viktor tilts his head to the side. “Then, whatever drew you to Kitezh?”

“You,” Yuuri answers, his voice catching. Panic after admitting something so straightforward curdles in his gut, but he can’t tear himself away from the intensity of Viktor’s wide-eyed gaze. “In the travels you wrote about,” he begins to explain, desperate to fill the silence since Viktor has yet to respond, “no matter how many amazing, unbelievable places and relics you uncovered, you always seemed to be still searching for something. I hoped learning about Kitezh would bring me closer to finally finding whatever it was for you.”

A burst of delicate pink crosses the bridge of Viktor’s nose and settles with the faint freckles scattered along his cheekbones. “For me?” he asks, his voice so quiet Yuuri has to strain to hear it despite their proximity. 

“You know, it’s silly, looking back on it now,” Yuuri huffs out a sheepish chuckle, “but I used to rehearse how I’d ask you to go on an adventure with me and—”

“I accept.”

The tension in Yuuri’s arms goes slack and sends scrolls toppling to the ground. “You… _what_.”

Viktor bends down on one knee and presses a hand flat over his heart. “Yuuri, it would be an absolute _honor_ to go on an adventure with you.”

It’s impossible to count how many times Yuuri has dreamt of this exact moment, or something like it. More than anything, he wants to cling to the idea of fantasy transforming into reality, but before it has a chance, logic delivers a swift and crushing blow: “You can’t.”

“Why not?” Viktor’s smile grows brittle, his brow pinched. “I understand if it’s because you no longer want me—”

“No, that’s not it!” Yuuri sinks to the floor and seizes Viktor by the shoulders. “Just because I’ve chased after you my entire life doesn’t give me the right to make you give up yours.” The journal immediately springs to mind, how it began to age and crumble once it left the water, and he shudders. His fingers dig in tightly, terrified of letting Viktor go. “As long as you’re here, you’re alive. But up there, you’ll eventually…you’ll…”

“A life without excitement is hardly one worth living.” 

Yuuri jerks back and stares, his vision stinging. “…Viktor?”

“Whether I remain here or travel elsewhere is of little consequence to me,” Viktor declares with a subtle shake of his head. Deftly plucking Yuuri’s trembling fingers from his sleeves, he intertwines them with his own, the gentleness of his touch grounding Yuuri’s frayed nerves. “I possessed no valid reason to leave before, but perhaps it’s been simply a matter of waiting to be enticed by the right opportunity.”

 _The right opportunity_. Despite his numerous doubts and concerns, Yuuri isn't going to allow Viktor to wait another hundred or so years for something which may never happen. 

A sudden wave of determination seizes control of him, and he shoots forward to press his forehead against Viktor’s, forcing their eyes to meet straight-on. “Viktor, go on an adventure with me!” He shouts, nearly to the point of demanding. “I don’t know where we’ll go or what we’ll do, but…please, stay by my side until we find it!”

The hush that falls afterward seems to drag on a tortuous amount before Viktor responds. “…Of course I will.” He punctuates his words with a tender brush of lips across Yuuri’s knuckles and smiles. “After all, how could I refuse such a proposal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ 8 ] \- [Old Novgorod dialect](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Novgorod_dialect) is the dialect dating from the 11th to the 15th centuries around (you guessed it) Old Novgorod, the area Kitezh would be at. So Viktor has had time to pick up the local lingo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has two thumbs and had to add an additional 2K of Viktor and Yuuri being an old married couple together?

**EPILOGUE**

The sound of a very familiar voice yelling Russian expletives, followed by the front door slamming so hard it shakes the walls, hardly surprises Yuuri any more. When he enters the parlor with a tray of tea—genmaicha, plain, because no matter how many years he’s lived in Russia now, he still shudders at the thought of adding sugar, milk, or anything else—he smiles in sympathy at his husband, sprawled out on the couch, surrounded by countless photo albums. 

“Let me guess,” Yuuri says, keeping his tone as gentle as possible as he places the tray on the coffee table made from wood reclaimed from a Soviet-era dacha. “Yura called you a ‘senile old man’ and stormed out again, didn’t he?”

“I don’t _understand_.” Even with Viktor’s face buried in one of the handmade silk cushions they purchased on their last trip to Nepal, the whine in his voice rings out loud and clear. Which shouldn’t be as strangely endearing as it is, all things considered. But the same could be said for the rest of Viktor’s idiosyncrasies. Like his tendency to lapse back into Old Novgorod when he’s half-asleep or had too much to drink. Or his stubborn insistence to learn about (and experience, if he can) everything that’s happened since he had disappeared, including things that are better off left in the past. It’s a wonder Yuuri hasn’t gone completely deaf from the numerous times an overexcited Viktor has rattled off various historical factoids he’s recently discovered. 

But Yuuri loves it. Loves Viktor. Even if he’s heard enough about both the fall of Romanov family and the lyrics to “Mamma Mia” to have some really, _really_ weird dreams as a result. 

“Whatever happened to the precious little grandson who used to sit on my knee and beg me to tell tales about my adventures?” Viktor pops his head up and sniffles, his eyes rimmed red. “Where did we go wrong? Why does he no longer possess a single ounce of respect for his elders?”

“He’s a teenager now, Vitya,” Yuuri says softly. He rubs a thumb against Viktor’s furrowed brow to smooth it, knowing Viktor will complain about yet another wrinkle forming later otherwise. “A month away before he’s an actual adult.” He brushes Viktor’s bangs out of his eyes, the strands now more salt-and-pepper than silver. While his long hair has been cut into something more modern and manageable, Yuuri thinks he’s just as handsome as the day they met. “To be honest, I don’t blame him for not believing your stories anymore; it sounds impossible for anyone who’s never been there. Some days even I wake up and expect all of this to be some kind of dream.”

“Mm.” Viktor turns his head to kiss Yuuri’s palm and reaches up to cradle their fingers together against the side of his face. “I do hope it’s been a good one at least, my love.”

“The best,” Yuuri assures him, bending down to peck the spot where Viktor swears his hair is thinning, though Yuuri doesn’t see it. 

Then again, Yuuri doesn’t see much these days. His vision was never that great to begin with, but now his cataracts have cataracts and he’s no longer able to drive at night. His seemingly never-ending stamina, for which Viktor used to highly sing its praises, has started to wind its way down from the moment he hit sixty. In its place is a stubborn fifteen pounds or so that clings as tightly to his belly, hips, and butt as much as Viktor does sometimes. 

Viktor hasn’t fared much better. He’s relatively healthy for being over two hundred years old, but still far from the spry adventurer he once was. He’s been forced into the ranks of glasses wearers a few years back, thankful the silver frames he’s chosen for himself highlight his distinguished good looks rather than hinder. His lungs have been giving him more and more issues lately, to the point where he sometimes has to prop himself up on a pile of pillows when he sleeps in order to breathe. And between the two of them, they have maybe one good knee, depending on the time of day and the weather outside. 

They’re still happy despite the constant aches and pains of growing older. Yuuri knows this, feels it as solidly as the weight of Viktor’s hand clasped within his own. But on days when Viktor has trouble getting out of bed on his own or has harsh coughing fits that can last for minutes on end, it’s easy for doubt to creep in. “You…” Yuuri starts to murmur but then pauses to swipe his tongue across dry, cracked lips. “You’ve been mentioning Kitezh a lot lately.”

He doesn’t say anything more than that. Doesn’t have to. It’s enough for Viktor—who, after plenty of trial and error over the years, has learned how Yuuri’s anxiety rears its ugly head—to understand what he really means. What he’s really asking. 

“I don’t have any regrets leaving there,” Viktor says, confident, just like he does every time the subject comes up. He tugs Yuuri down into his lap, ignoring protests about possibly aggravating the bursitis in his hips any further. “If I carry any sort of regrets within my heart, it is that I didn’t have the opportunity to meet you much sooner.”

“Me too,” Yuuri admits, his cheeks flushed pink. After nearly fifty years of marriage, Viktor has never lost the ability to turn Yuuri into an awkward schoolboy, tongue-tied around his secret crush. 

He leans his head back against Viktor’s shoulder and lets out a wistful sigh before reaching for a nearby photo album. Out of the modern technologies Viktor has been introduced to, he’s embraced the concept of photography and selfies the most. So they have countless albums stacked around every corner of their home, packed full from their travels spanning across the entire globe. 

A picture of Yuuri re-applying sunscreen to already crispy-looking Viktor while the Great Sphinx of Giza stoically observes in the background. Another photo features them sitting on the uppermost stairs of Machu Picchu, covered in sweat and clearly exhausted, their fists raised together in celebration for climbing to the top. Them at the base of Mt. Everest, their eyes the only thing visible under heavy down jackets and fur-lined ushanka hats. A whole book dedicated to when they spent a summer in the wild depths of the Amazon, making love every night underneath nothing but the rainforest canopy and the stars. 

Then there are photos of more mundane but no less important events too. Like the day they brought their daughter home from the orphanage when she was hardly anything more than a tuft of blonde hair and green eyes wrapped in a light pink blanket. Every event in her life has been documented, from her first steps, her first tooth, her first day of school, to her first archaeological excavation. Snapshots of birthdays and holidays, family pets, best friends, school graduations; anything and everything Viktor could take a picture of, including his husband and daughter simultaneously groaning about being a part of yet another photo.

Yuuri is thankful for Viktor’s obsession with “capturing the moment” now. Whenever the memories begin to grow fuzzy with age, he can relive their daughter growing up from a small girl in pigtails to a beautiful young woman beaming on her wedding day, Viktor and Yuuri in competition with each other to see who could shed the most tears. 

(To this day, Viktor denies he “won,” quickly changing the conversation when Yuuri brings up the fact there’s plenty of photographic evidence.)

First children, now grandchildren, and—as terrifying and alien as the concept is to think about at the moment in regards to Yuri—perhaps even great-grandchildren in the near future. Home split between their quaint cottage on the outside borders of the Saint Petersburg and the Katsuki family onsen back in Japan. Cold winter nights spent curled up together in front of the fireplace, long walks hand-in-hand along the sandy beach, lazy Sunday mornings in the comfort of each other’s arms. 

It’s not the life Yuuri ever imagined having with Viktor. Not in a million years. But it’s been the grandest adventure of them all. 

Yuuri is about to nod off, content and comfortable, when Viktor shifts slightly underneath him. “...Although I must admit I have been pondering something lately,” Viktor says, almost hesitant, as if he’s gauging Yuuri’s reaction before saying anything further. 

“Hmm?” Yuuri is nowhere near as flexible and agile as he used to be, yet he still manages to twist around to give Viktor his full attention. “What’s that?”

“I think I’ve decided where we should venture to next.”

“Ah.” Yuuri drops his shoulders in guilt. “Right.”

It _has_ been a while; he was wondering when the wanderlust would return. They had planned a trip to the cathedrals of Notre Dame earlier in the year, something considerably tame when compared to past locations. They wound up canceling the day before their flight when Yuuri came down with a nasty bout of the flu, knocking him out of commission for weeks afterward. While Viktor repeatedly reassures him he wasn’t to blame, it still eats Yuuri up inside and he’s been gunning for a chance to make amends. 

It’s not like they can’t afford it either. Funny how “accidentally discovering” previously unheard documents of the adventurer Viktor Nikiforov can nest a sizable chunk of change from the anthropological community. 

“Where you want to go this time then?” Yuuri asks, pulling out his phone to load the website of their usual travel agency. “Did you want to try Paris again, or maybe Greece for the Parthenon…”

He trails off when he sees the look on Viktor’s face, and in an instant, he knows. “ _Oh,_ ” he breathes out. “You want to go back.”

“Not without you by my side,” Viktor is hasty to explain. “If you find the idea abhorrent, we can put the whole matter behind us and forget I said anything.” 

“That’s not fair and you know it,” Yuuri protests. He’s angry, but he doesn’t know if he’s madder at Viktor for putting him in this position, or himself for not seeing the signs. “How can you ask me to just ignore the fact that you’re not happy here?”

“Oh, Yuurasha, darling, no.” Viktor tugs Yuuri by the shoulders and leans forward until their foreheads are pushed together. “No, you misunderstand. No matter where we are, I’ll still be the happiest man alive as long as you’re with me.” He shudders out a sigh, and when he speaks again, his voice is small, wavering. “Call me selfish, but I don’t want to risk losing that if…if something should happen to one of us—”

“Shh.” Yuuri places a finger over Viktor’s lips. It hurts too much to hear the words aloud as it probably does for Viktor to voice them. “Okay then.” He exhales, steadies his nerves, and squares his shoulders back. “…Yeah, okay. We’ll prepare everything, say our goodbyes, and then we’ll go.”

“Really? You’ve decided so soon?” Viktor stares at him with wide, shining eyes, gaping in wonder like when they managed to emerge from the bottoms of Lake Svetloyar, soaked to the bone but both very much alive. “There’s no guarantee we’ll even be capable of returning there.”

“We will,” Yuuri says, sure and steadfast, bolstered by the flames of determination smoldering inside of him. “If anyone can do it, we can, together.” He lifts Viktor’s hand up and brushes lips over his knuckles, at the golden bands they exchanged with each other years ago, a nod to how and where they met. “Well, Vitya? Are you ready to go on one final adventure with me?”

Viktor lets out a gasp and then his smile stretches from ear to ear. “I will go with you,” he says, “except for one thing.” 

Yuuri blinks. “What’s that?”

“It’s simple.” Viktor tugs Yuuri close, and before he leans in for a kiss, he says, “You can’t call it a ‘final’ adventure if it never ends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *could've added stuff about Viktor and Yuuri going on adventures, went the domestic route instead* NO REGRETS.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and reviews are always appreciated! <3 You can also find me on [tumblr](http://teekettle.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/alexieldefanel).


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